


Ways To Die

by Vertiga



Series: Whispers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asexual!Sherlock returns to the bedroom for his promised second experiment with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ways To Die

Cases and clinic hours intervene, and it is over a week before Sherlock and John get to spend another lazy day curled up together on the sofa.

In the early afternoon, the sensation of Sherlock’s warm, soft body shifting slightly against him as they breathe finally becomes too much, and John excuses himself, staggering away with a near-painful erection tenting his pyjamas. Within three steps Sherlock is following, stretching his long limbs, an expression of scientific curiosity marking his strong features.

Realising he is being followed immediately kicks John’s already present arousal into overdrive, sending what feels like every pint of blood in his body thundering into his cock. Sherlock pushes the bedroom door closed behind them with a quiet click, and John shivers, feeling trapped.

‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d decided against another experiment,’ John says, arousal making his voice breathier than usual. ‘Or forgotten about it.’

Sherlock quirks a half-smile at him. ‘I never forget the important things.’

_Helping me get off = more important than the solar system,_ John notes, and feels his ego swell. He pulls off his t-shirt in one sudden motion, drops it to the carpet and looks expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock is standing with his arms folded, his blue dressing gown hanging loose at his sides, looking with interest at John’s bare chest. John knows he isn’t as chiselled as he had been during his army days, but chasing Sherlock around London keeps him in trim, and he feels no shame for the slight softening over his stomach. Pale blond hair is lightly dusted across his chest, thickening below his navel as it trails down below the band of his pyjama trousers. Pink areolas stand out against the faint tan that, even years after standing shirtless under the Afghan sun, has never completely faded. As Sherlock’s eyes devour him, John feels his nipples draw tight, pink buds standing proud and sensitive. He wonders if Sherlock will breathe against them again and bites his lip at the memory.

‘Aren’t you going to take something off?’ John asks his ethereal companion. ‘Fair exchange is no robbery, and all that.’

Sherlock shakes his head. ‘You first. I want you to lie back and watch me strip.’

John is hardly likely to complain at that idea, and he hooks his fingers under the waistband of his pyjamas, stretches it almost clear of his erection and pulls the trousers down, gasping at the sensation of the textured flannel trailing over the very tip of his cock. God, he’s hard. He can hardly remember the last time he was this hot and bothered before he’d even started, and he strongly suspects that Sherlock’s pale eyes raking over him have something to do with it.

Stepping out of his discarded trousers, John crawls up the bed and settles himself against the pillows, propped up to keep Sherlock in view. His knees are slightly spread to ease the throb in his groin, his cock standing proud, flushed deep red amidst the blond curls. He feels vulnerable, a specimen pinned to a card for Sherlock to examine at leisure, and he’d be lying if he said that idea didn’t make him shiver deliciously.

For a long moment, Sherlock does no more than look at him, examining his skin in the sunlight that pours in through the flimsy net curtains. It’s all John can do to keep his hands off himself, and he reaches back to grasp the bed rails so as not to ruin Sherlock’s no-touching experiment. He is too scared that, robbed of any scientific interest in proceedings, Sherlock would simply leave him to it. Sex, other than as a motive for murder, has never held the detective's interest.

At last, Sherlock unfolds his arms and puts on his veneer of sexuality. His posture melts, limbs loose and languid, his pale eyes hooded and wet, his breathing a ragged counterpoint to John’s own.

John lets out a sigh of pleasure at the sight, this vision straight out of his fantasies.

Keeping his eyes locked on John, Sherlock shrugs his dressing gown off his shoulders, letting the silk slide slowly down his arms and hang for a moment on his wrists before it falls, whispering, to the carpet.

‘God, John, all the hairs on my body are standing on end,’ Sherlock says, his voice a low, sensuous rumble. ‘I’m so sensitive, just thinking about you running your fingers down my neck.’ He lifts a slender hand and does exactly that, drawing feather-light fingertips down the sharp line of his jaw, over the delicate pulse point and down towards his porcelain collarbones.

John imagines the sensation and moans softly, his skin tingling in sympathy. His eyes fall shut for a moment, and when he opens them, Sherlock is removing his t-shirt, dark curls mussed as he pulls the cotton over his head. John drinks in the sight of Sherlock’s pale chest, smooth and hairless, tapering from powerful shoulders to a narrow waist, the lines of ribs and hip bones sharp as knives. His nipples are darker than John's own, pert and drawn as though Sherlock has dived into freezing water.

Sherlock follows his gaze and gives a throaty chuckle. ‘Do you want to touch, John? Do you want to suck, to make me gasp out your name? Oh, John!’ Sherlock gasps, one hand circling his nipple, the other laid almost carelessly against his ribs.

John’s mouth goes dry with want, his cock twitching painfully, desperate. He wants nothing more than to touch Sherlock all over, claim him with lips and teeth.

For long minutes Sherlock explores his own chest with deft fingers, giving little gasps and moans each time he grazes against his hard nipples. The small sounds drive John mad with lust, his head rolling against the pillow as he imagines Sherlock is touching him, that he is touching Sherlock, dragging each of those moans from his perfect mouth. 

‘God, John, I want your mouth on me,’ Sherlock groans, and John can take it no more. He lets one hand slip from the wooden bed rails and creep to his nipple, rolling it between his fingers. After so long without touch, the sensation hits him like a supernova, leaving him groaning through clenched teeth, bucking his hips in a desperate search for friction. His eyes squeeze shut, losing sight of Sherlock, but the image of the pale man is burned on the inside of his eyelids.

John is seconds from taking himself in hand and ending it all when cool silk wraps around his wrist and yanks it upwards.

‘I warned you what would happen if you could not control yourself, did I not?’ Sherlock says, with just a trace of his usual bite, capturing John’s other wrist in the loop of his dressing gown cord.

‘Oh God, yes, you did,’ John admits breathlessly, as Sherlock binds his wrists firmly to the wooden bed. ‘Can’t say I’m sorry.’

‘We’ll have to see about that,’ Sherlock promises, voice low and velvety, and John groans with the realisation that he is now completely at the mercy of Sherlock Holmes. He has been desperate to finish for what feels like hours, and Sherlock could stretch it out for the rest of the day if he wants. ‘Christ, you’re going to be the death of me.’

‘There are worse ways to die,’ Sherlock whispers, his breath hot against John’s ear, and then he is gone again, stepping away from the bed to slide his hands across his flat stomach and push them down beneath the waistband of his pyjamas.

John watches hungrily, pulling almost unconsciously against his restraints, winding up the tension until his wounded shoulder burns. The pain anchors him as Sherlock speaks.

‘Did you know that I think about you in the shower, John?’ the smooth voice begins, each syllable like melted chocolate as Sherlock touches himself. John feels every touch like a ghost on his skin, and within seconds he is panting again.

‘When the hot water caresses me, I imagine it is you. When it runs over my cock, it is your hand, slick with my own cum, stroking me until I can’t even remember my own name, and the only word I know is “John”. Those doctor’s hands drive me mad, so sure and clever. Shall I show you what they do to me, John?’

‘Yes! Oh God, Sherlock...’ John moans, writhing against his bonds. Pre-cum is running down the underside of his cock, and if he doesn’t get some friction soon he thinks he might go insane.

Sherlock slips out of his pyjamas at last and stands naked beside the bed. John drinks in the sight of him, pale skin turned golden by afternoon sun. His penis is still soft, laid against dark curls that John would give his right arm to run his fingers through just once. Sherlock’s thighs are slim but muscular, powerful enough to let him leap across rooftops, dusted with the faintest scatter of dark hair. He stands carelessly, his stance graceful and unashamed of John’s eyes on him.

‘God, perfect...’ John chokes out, grinding his hips against nothing, imagining that Sherlock is straddling him, those strong thighs pinning him down.

Sherlock takes himself in hand, long fingers stroking, teasing along his shaft and curling over the head, and within a few strokes he is growing hard. Blood flushes his groin to a deep red and John is transfixed, watching Sherlock’s cock swell and lengthen. Sherlock moans with each pass of his hand, his knees trembling as he stands just inches from John, taunting his bound lover.

‘See what you do to me, John? Oh, John, yes, like that!’ Sherlock sighs out, his breathy voice making John’s entire body convulse with need. ‘I want you to suck me, John. Wrap those lips around me, swallow me down deep. Would you do that, John?’

John’s mouth hangs open, gaping, wanting Sherlock to claim him, to fill his mouth until he chokes. He has never so badly wanted to suck someone. His breath is ragged, uneven, completely out of his control.

‘Sherlock, please!’ he forces out, his eyes rolling up in his head as Sherlock gives a long, throaty moan. His balls are drawn tight, his muscles trembling with the strain of their long torment. One touch would be enough, one whisper of those long, clever fingers against his cock. John groans in sweet agony at the thought.

‘I want you to run your tongue across my arse, bite it, claim it for yourself. Do you want that, John? To lick a wet stripe down the cleft of my arse, then fuck me with your tongue. Do you want me to do that to you?’ Sherlock asks, and John is barely aware that his voice is right next to his ear again, hot breath on his neck. John is so far gone that he cannot force his eyes to open to see his lover there.

‘Please!’ he chokes, pulling against his bonds until the silk bites red into his wrists.

‘God, you’re gorgeous like that,’ Sherlock murmurs, and there is a sudden weight beside John as Sherlock sinks down onto the bed.  
John’s wet eyes flicker open in time to see Sherlock stretch out beside him, face flushed with want as he leans in for a searing kiss. Lips lock, tongues grapple and John cannot breathe, panting into Sherlock’s mouth as his brain cries out for oxygen. Dark spots blur his vision and his whole body is on fire, nerves firing at random as he teeters on the brink of blacking out.

Sherlock shifts, trying to get comfortable against John’s writhing form, and his arm brushes against John’s cock.

It is enough. It is too much. John comes so hard that every muscle locks solid, arching his body away from the bed. His vision blanks completely and Sherlock moves away for a moment to let John gasp for breath. Once John doesn’t seem quite so in danger of suffocating, he brings their lips together again, kissing John through the long waves of the most intense orgasm he has ever experienced.

The spasms take a long time to pass, and John floats, his mind wiped clean of any conscious thought. He is aware only of Sherlock’s lips pressing gently against his, again and again, kissing him back from oblivion. Pleasure fades slowly in the dark world behind John’s eyelids, leaving pain behind. His shoulder aches and prickles with pins and needles which he cannot shift far enough to ease.

‘Could you...?’ he begins, then pauses to locate the necessary words in his shattered brain. Luckily for John, Sherlock can guess what he needs. He is, after all, a genius.

Quick fingers release the silk around his wrists and guide his hands to rest comfortably, one at his side, the other wrapped around Sherlock, who lies beside him.

When, at last, John opens his eyes, the afternoon sun is almost blinding, and he buries his head in Sherlock’s curls until his eyes adjust. Memories filter back slowly, and he is surprised to see, looking down Sherlock’s body, that there is no trace of his former erection.

‘Did you finish?’ John asks softly.

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. ‘I stopped touching it, so it went away while you were busy swooning,’ he says, with a slightly mocking tone.

John would love to take exception to the idea that he would be so unmanly as to swoon, but he can’t think of a more accurate word for the total mind-wipe he just experienced, so he’ll just have to concede the point.

‘I was surprised to see you hard,’ he admits. ‘I didn’t think...’

Sherlock snorts. ‘I’m not biologically incapable, John. Manual stimulation affects me the same way as it affects any other man. It’s simply the associated lust which isn’t quite there.’

‘Could have fooled me...’

‘I did, in fact,’ Sherlock says, with a smirk.

Again, John can do no more than concede the point. Another memory drifts to the still surface of his mind, and he frowns a little. ‘You ruined your experiment.’

Sherlock grins. ‘I underestimated you. Do you have any idea how kissable you looked, tied up and begging, flushed red in the face? I couldn’t help it. I like kissing you too much. It doesn’t matter - there will be time for other experiments. Besides, can you honestly tell me you were displeased with the results?’

John laughs softly, still full to the brim with an almost unbelievable sense of well-being.

‘You are amazing,’ he tells Sherlock, kissing his forehead. ‘Even if you did damn near kill me.’

Sherlock shifts against his shoulder, putting his soft lips next to John’s ear. ‘There are worse ways to die,’ he whispers.

John hums in agreement. There are certainly worse ways, but right at that moment, John is damned if he can think of a better one.


End file.
